


daydream in blue

by kurlykmurlyk



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Angst, Emotional Hurt, How Do I Tag, M/M, Sindom, actors!au, sad martin sad ending no fluff for you today
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:02:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26055403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurlykmurlyk/pseuds/kurlykmurlyk
Summary: Lights, camera, action, right?Isn't that what people say when they want to steal someone's soul?or: a berlermo!actors au with no cameras and scenarios
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	daydream in blue

**Author's Note:**

> enjoy this little dramatic thingie i wrote at 4 am as usual

He feels so fucking good.

The pain spreads down the back of the head, quickly, sharply, without any preludes - exactly as he needs.

Nobody wants any sticky greetings, nobody wants constant questions, always the same. No one wants handshakes, awkward looks, slippery steps back and forth, light simple touches, but no matter how hard you try, they still settle with a load on the shoulders and arms, on the white collars of shirts, on the neck, on the palms they settle in a thick dusty layer, like bitter blue chalk.

They crawl under the nails, remain on the cold door handle in crooked prints, fall asleep in deep scratches on the new wallpaper when he rips off his fingers to hell, breaks his hands, rolls to the floor and his cry is absorbed into the lonely walls, like tears into someone's nearest shoulder, because he can cry only to them; and they humbly bow their heads, but they will not grieve afterwards at all. _Because loneliness knows how to smile, but he doesn’t._

But the sound of billiard balls is not buzzing nearby anymore, no one has been smoking fat cigars for a long time already, no one is twisting their hips over the green table and no one is knocking the heels of brand new patent leather shoes, and heavy gray smoke and flat background noise are no longer his faithful companions, there is no one to hold him by the elbow anymore, when he barely walks on his wadded feet, no one else will stroke him on the back and hold his hand when he, bent in half, twists his stomach into the dirty toilet.

And from there, from under his own vomit, hatred shines slyly, here it is, candy in a beautiful wrapper.

Hatred is delicious, hatred is sweet, much better than ordinary anger - after all, he already knows it by heart. He knows every bend of her scarlet dress, he knows how her heels knock, how she burns on your cheeks, how she bites her knees, how she lies on her back, breathes loudly, slowly takes off her stocking and puts her foot on your chest.

Slowly, God, how slowly she leads it down, tickles your groin with her heel, _touches touches licks licks swallows bites touches breathes moans moans bites moans unbuttons touches and so every damn time in a row has been for a fucking eternity and a half_ ; how her light wet curls stick to the clothes, how drunkenly she bends over and kisses, buries her nose in the pantsof everyone she meets, resting her hands on the pillow - he knows her inside and out because he _is_ her.

But hatred is something that he has not tried, h _e hadn’t played hate yet_. Hatred runs away from him for years, hatred hides its face, as also hates it; it hides behind the playing cards - always an ace of diamonds - and bright labels, colorful bottles, tickets to an empty movies.

Hate is looking at him right now, but only because he paid it.

But anger did not go anywhere, anger always stands behind his shoulder, it always hisses behind his ear, it gives him confidence, fills his lungs with a caustic scent of cloying vanilla, raises his hands, buzzes unpleasantly in his elbows and palms are shaking; _did you see yourself in the mirror? how do they put up with you at all?;_ pulls hatred by the spiky short hair, clenches the fist and hits, without hesitation breaks hatreds nose, and then leaves it behind, _because anger knows how to smile, but he doesn’t._

And Martin runs out of the room rented for one night, only throwing a blurred look at the dumbfounded guy that stood in the doorway with blood on his lips, leans against the wall and slides on the burgundy carpet throughout the entire corridor, jumps over the steps down to the exit, but just on the street sharp bright purple signs kill all the scent of the perfume that managed to catch on to his shirt, and only blood and viscous bile remain on the jacket.

***

_Lights, camera, action, right?_

_Isn't that what people say when they want to steal someone's soul?_

Martins walls are covered with paintings, posters, photographs, faces, eyes, other people's smiles, fingers, lips, eyelashes, red cheeks, sighs, laughter, screams, destinies, stories, names, dates, Mondays, Wednesdays, Tuesdays, lives and deaths , a cold lawyer with _his_ own face is gazing at him listlessly from the kitchen wall, two guys are sitting in the living room - some regular celebrity and an unrecognized genius musician, also with _his_ own face, more people, also with his face, more people, also with his face, more people, also with his face, more people, also with his face, more people, more people, and Martin stands in front of the mirror and does not see his own.

He lost it long ago among the loud applause and curious glass gazes of TV cameras, his face has already been erased from old CDs that lie in a dusty pile on the farest shelf, it washed off the street posters in a cold summer rain and dissolved in rusty broken smiles.

And there, right in front of his nose, barely fitting into a wide rough frame, forehead resting on the cold hard surface, stands his reflection - black, empty, and with a damn grin on his face, as if Martin himself doesn’t exist, as if he had been wiped off with a rag, like a greasy stain from the tile.

After all, no matter how hard you try, time will not even bother to swat you like a mosquito, God has not heard anyone for a long time - you will dissolve in the sticky sea foam, because someday _you_ will not be enough, someone will want more, someday you will crumble and nothing will remain from you - _no photos, no songs, no money_ \- and you surrender, and no one will even remember your pathetic name, silly. So why are you trying?

Why are you trying? Throw out everything that you have, all the memories, every look and every breath, break all the mirrors, conquer the whole world, steal all souls, break each one, and then yourself, hang yourself, resting your bare feet on a cold sink, drown yourself in a narrow shower stall, but then you will die with a smile on your face, and your smile will shine on the screens, because now you can’t do even _this_ , such a simple littke thing.

Nobody even wants to remember how you spread on the tongue, how you taste, how you smell. No one wants to remember the trembling of your hands, how your eyelashes shake like the wings of april dragonflies in the warm dry wind, how your voice is buzzing over the ear, quietly, tasty, sweet; how does wine rustle in glasses, s _pices and fruits, right? choke on it,_ how your fingers tickle the strings and the sun caresses your red cheeks, tenderly, and tears fall on your eyelids in hot white light and a quiet summer hum that splashes softly on your skin.

Nobody wants to cry at your funeral.

Nobody wants to remember you.

Don't make them remember you.

_Because you don't know how to smile, my dear._

_***_

But he knows how to laugh, he knows how to cry, he knows how to shout and break his voice, and that's all that people need.

People like to look at what they do not know, at what hey can’t do, the feeling of envy always beckons, always spits in the face and waves its fluffy tail goodbye; envy hisses and spreads its black feathers, there is always too much of it, there is always very little of it, and it, curled up in one big bitter ball, just splashes in the dark pupils of the tired spectators and hides in an old burgundy curtain, somewhere, behind the scenes, among gray actors and bright fanfare.

Envy will never be interrupted for an advertising break, envy has no power, but it is still thrown on the gambling table, behind its colorful fan they hide their eyes and all the wet lies that nervously flow down their faces, they always put envy on the line. Because that's the only thing that's left.

Maybe he doesn't want to smile. Maybe he's already fed up with it. Maybe he doesn’t have anyone else.

But when he is on the set, the script is rolled into a tube and sticks out of his pocket, with only an old sweater and frayed jeans on him, when there is only a viscous silence in his eyes, he sees what he has not seen in his mirror yet.

He sees cowardice.

God, he sees cowardice itself in the flesh, they take autographs from it, hey kiss cowardice's feet just because of pitiful lips and a sweet voice, and it is dressed in the best jacket he has ever seen, it has the most beautiful hands, it has the most beautiful eyes, cowardice has the most beautiful name. Andres de Fonollosa.

And he walks proudly, knocking the heels of his shoes, and between his fingers a thick cigar is smoldering quietly, and Martin thinks that a déjà vu shines in a bitter whisper under his tongue. And he smiles, and cowardice also smiles back at him, and nothing else matters. At that moment, all the dragonflies died.

Because he crumbles under the gaze of the lens, because his life has a shitty screenwriter _and he cries and less his tears get down on your knees and pray whisper his name in my ear stay silent give me your sou_ l because the reflection in the mirror always smiles.

Because he is helplessness.

Because he breaks the mirrors with one of his hot gaze, because each character walks with his wide smile, he himself gave it to them only as a token of gratitude, _get down on your knees and pray lose your voice burn everything around_ because otherwise he will rust and his voice will wheeze and his ego will no longer whine, and it will rot in silence.

Because he is cowardice.

And cowardice takes the first step, and helplessness stretches out its hand. Maybe everything is not lost yet.

Maybe he'll teach him to smile.

Maybe when he kisses him, when the only music left is their quiet sighs, when they laugh in each other's lips, quietly, when-

Maybe when the pain spreads down the back of the head, quickly, sharply, without any preludes - exactly as he needs, when _he feels so fucking good_ when nobody wants any viscous greetings, nobody wants constant questions, when there are no perfume or mirrors, when he nuzzles his cheek, _when he bites licks touches touches licks kisses-_

Maybe when _how do I look?_ he _powerful. beautiful_ , and they laugh again. And when Andres pulls the corners of his lips up with his fingers, he laughs and leaves, because cowardice will always be cowardice, and helplessness will always stand there, and a daydream in blue smolders on his cheeks


End file.
